Dew
by Monday
Summary: In the time between day and night anything can seem real. HPDM Oneshot


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Please review.**

He dreams about Draco dying sometimes. He can see the slate grey eyes staring out from pale skin and the blood leaking from his mouth. Oddly he looks peaceful and tormented. All at the same time. Harry shudders and wakes up.

He's lying on his chest now. It's a normal chest. Not extremely muscled but not frail. A good and comfortable chest. Draco laughs when he tells him this. Draco laughs at a lot of the things Harry says. He says it's because he's amazed that after all these years Harry can still be so innocent.

So Harry doesn't tell him about the bloody dreams that he can't blame on Voldemort. Images of fathers raping their daughters while Voldemort sits in the background. Red eyes smile at him and they say _I'm not even using the imperius. He's doing all by himself. _And Harry thinks they're never going to win the war. He finds a way to hide the thoughts that would darken his eyes and he smiles. Just for Draco, who has eyes the colour of storm clouds, ready to burst. Harry's smiles and unclouded eyes help keep the storm at bay most days.

He's drawing nonsensical shapes on his bare chest. Draco's not ticklish so he doesn't squirm and Harry can see the tiny pale hairs on his chest. His chest is rising up and down, steady. Because Draco the only steady thing in his life. But the trouble is for someone to be steady all their curves have to be seen and Draco doesn't have curves. He has edges, sharp and deadly edges. But Harry tries. It's his little game. Try and learn one new thing about Draco every day.

"Why didn't you follow your father?" He speaks in a whisper, frightened that any mention of _that time_ might break the seemingly frail boy beneath him. But Draco is strong. Stronger then he'll ever be and only smiles, a distant smile. He's far away in the past and Harry grips his hand, feeling cold metal beneath his hand. Though his father has disowned him Draco still bears the silver ring of his ancestors.

His voice is distant too. Harry always liked his voice. After he hit puberty and it deepened. It hardly changes tones. A slight inflection and he's angry instead of content. Harry prides himself on being able to know how Draco's feeling simply from the slight shift in his voice. Right now it's calm and casual almost as though he's telling a story he once heard.

"The Malfoys are a dark family. They always have been. They are much darker than Lord Slytherin ever was and they pride themselves on it. Even when there wasn't a war we found way to amuse ourselves. Muggles don't seem to care much when a child from the slums goes missing. I grew up with screams coming from the dungeons. I had my fill of violence and pain when I was seven. I used to watch them from the stairs. The children and adults writhing in pain. Sometimes they would even get adult purebloods. The traitors, muggle lovers and they writhed too. Why am I not dark? Why didn't I take my father's hand?"

He pauses and there's a bitter smile adorning his face.

"Because I've heard muggle scream and I've heard purebloods scream. They all sound the same, women, children. **Men**. Screams of hysteria and pain and painful hope. All so eager to live until they're eager to die. I have no interest in the argument. I don't follow Dumbledore. Both sides have their beliefs and who is right, no one knows. _I_ don't care."

He's stroking the dark hair fanning over his pale chest when the sunlight comes through the curtains. Draco slides from underneath him and Harry grips his hand. He doesn't know why but Draco's not coming back. He can feel it. Maybe it's something in the air; does the shadow around him seem just a little darker? So he holds him.

Draco looks confused at the tight grip on his wrist. He leans down and kisses the raven haired boy still lying in the bed. It's a deep kiss and Harry doesn't want it to stop. He runs his fingers through soft hair, holding him closer. He knows if he lets go, Draco will slip away like dew on the window. Floating away until he can't be found.

He holds tighter but he can still feel blonde hair slipping through his fingers. The pressure on his lips is receding and when he opens his eyes Draco is gone. There's no warm spot beside him where Draco lay only moments ago. No tell tale hint of the expensive cologne Draco always wears. Because in truth, no one has shared his bed for years.

He lives in a dreamland. Though he can still feel the sting of that passionate last kiss, the cold, silver ring weighing down on his finger tells him that Draco is dead.


End file.
